Another downside to being a mom of an ERM is finding your way among your friends, family, and ward family. As we were preparing our son to leave I would get lots of text messages, Facebook posts, and had conversations at the grocery store with other missionary moms who were all sharing in my excitement and always had lots of little tips to offer. I felt I had a huge support group that would carry me through these two years. On my block alone, of the four houses, there would be three of us sending our kids on missions within a month of each other. We quickly decided that we would share this adventure together and even try to have monthly lunch dates where we could just talk about our missionaries. It was so easy to find other mom's and families that had missionaries serving and felt an instant bond and connection to them. On the day we dropped our son off at the MTC, many of those friends brought Coke, chocolate, and tissues, sent uplifting text messages, and made sure I was doing okay over those first difficult weeks. I knew I was going to be emotionally and mentally okay with my army of missionary mom's behind me over the next two years.
But then that phone call does something strange to that army and it was literally disbanded in a matter of moments. Suddenly many, many of those friends didn't know what to say anymore. Suddenly the weekly text messages and Facebook correspondence stopped. Suddenly I felt that people avoided me at the store because they either didn't know what to say or didn't want to associate with "that mom with that kid." (I know now that was irrational to feel, but it's what I felt for a long awhile.) Suddenly going to lunch with my two neighbors sounded like the worst idea ever thought of. Suddenly I felt so alone and so isolated at church because I didn't belong in the same circle as all those other, more worthy missionary moms. Suddenly I was brutally shut out of a world that I had waited 19 years to be apart of. And with that brutal slamming of the door I quickly learned that there would be those that would help me bear this burden, mourn with me, and stand willing to comfort at any time.
My first real encounter with other people came at church that first Sunday. There were those ward members that came up and gave me and our son a huge hug and just said, "Welcome back." There were those that gave me that complimentary pity smile - not because they are trying to be rude but because they don't know what else to do. I know now that I have made that same horrible mistake and will never do that again. And there were those that I literally felt like they were happy our family was experiencing this trial-that we had this coming. But there were those that had walked this road before us that instantly knew what to do. I found tremendous strength, comfort, and safety in those people. They were the ones that knew how to mourn, bear, and comfort from personal experience and became my lifeline in the beginning. What I appreciated the very most was the people that came up to me and said, 'I have no idea what you are experiencing and feeling but know that you are loved and someday it's going to be okay." I loved that people could be honest with me because truly, only a handful of people did know what we were going through, but they still wanted me to feel safe around them. And their honesty gave me the permission I needed to feel safe.
I struggled for months with the "friends" that I suddenly didn't hear from anymore. I felt very betrayed in the beginning by their abandonment. Why was I suddenly no longer worthy or important enough for those weekly text messages or Facebook posts? Had my sons coming home offended them? Had my lack of parenting skills been a wake-up call to them that I wasn't good enough to be their friend anymore? My self-confidence, which was already dangerously low at this point, was pushed over the edge and I wondered if I would ever feel accepted and loved by anyone ever again. But I also had to acknowledge that friendships based solely on being a missionary mom couldn't survive for long if I no longer fit that title. The drifting apart was natural, not personal. It took me awhile to understand that. To this day, even two years later, I still run into some of those "friends' and the conversations are forced and unnatural to me.
Probably the biggest hurt I experienced came from family, oddly enough, but it taught me the greatest lesson. Shortly after Christmas my husbands family was having their traditional game night at my in-laws house. We had been attending this tradition for years and years and I always looked forward to it. This year was different. I hadn't heard from anyone on his side of the family except for one brother, "Joe", who was more like one of my kids. Joe had been divorced nearly 12 years ago and had lived with us for a year after his divorce where we supported him financially, emotionally, and mentally. Up to this point, that year had been the hardest we had ever experienced but also very rewarding. He had three sons that became like three sons to me and brothers to my five children. Our families shared a very, very close bond over the years so Joe was devastated by our son's early return as well. Or so we thought.
Not knowing how anyone else on his side of the family was going to react to us made me very apprehensive about attending this family party. I wasn't strong enough to be around people that I didn't feel safe with yet and I just didn't know if I was going to feel safe. I told my husband I didn't want to go - that it wouldn't be a good idea. My husband assured me that this was family, that I was loved no matter what, that his brother Joe would be there (who had recently remarried. That story is another blog for another day), and that everything would be "fine." So I went and felt like this night would be a good booster for me. Heaven knows playing some games, eating food, and having some laughs would do me a world of good. But that's not what happened.
We waited to go over to the party until two of our daughter were off work so we could go as a family so we were a bit late. We walked in and there were a few games going on, some family around the food table, and the rest sitting on the couches just visiting. The minute we walked into the room an odd feeling was immediately present. Was it tension? Apprehension? Uncertainty? Annoyance? Judging? Another group of people that felt our family had this coming? I couldn't tell but it didn't feel like my in-laws house normally felt like. My husband picked up on it too but again, he assured me that everything was "just fine." But a strange thing happened. As I got my food,as I sat on the couch around all the other adults- my brothers and sisters-in-law -no one spoke to me. Not one of them. For the whole night. I suddenly felt so alone and so out of place among people that were family and supposed to make you feel safe. I made a few feeble attempts at conversations but replies were merely one word answers. I distinctly felt that I was not among people that wanted us there; that we were being ignored for a reason. After two and half hours of being in that family room, on that couch surrounded by every single in-law not one person had talked to me or made the effort to reach out. I finally passed the time by re-reading every text message on my phone. Was I feeling sorry for myself at that point? Absolutely. But I was in mourning and just needed some comfort from anyone at that point. A couple of days later I was talking to Joe on the phone and asked why he hadn't said anything to me at the party. His response is one I'll never forget and hurt me almost as bad as having my son home. He said, "You know, you're making this into a bigger deal that what it is. It's not the end of the world. There are a lot of worse things people go through so you'll be fine." I was stunned, deeply hurt, and angry. I wished I would have known that when he was going through a divorce - I may have done a few things differently.
But here is the lesson I learned from that night and one I hope I never forget. Is there a scale that we measure pain, suffering, hurt, or trials on and then determine what amount of comfort we are to offer? Do we only bear burdens, mourn, and comfort those whose trials are deemed bad enough? After Alma had fled from King Noah and was teaching the people prior to their baptism at the Waters of Mormon he talked about what they needed to do to be called his people - covenants that anyone who is baptized has made. Does he not say, "...as ye are desirous to come into the fold of God, and to be called his people, and are willing to bear one another's burden's that they may be light. Yea, and are willing to mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort, and to stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places that ye may be in....(Mosiah 18:8-9)" I don't know that I see a scale where burdens and trials are measured against. And I began to wonder how many times I may have inadvertently treated someone else the same way.
I am close to my youngest brother and he and his family were back east for the holidays when they got the news. They both called and texted and said as soon as they got back to Utah they would come visit. And they did. They came out one Sunday, brought all my favorite foods, and just spent the night with us talking, making plans to help our son, and ended the night on a light and fun note. My brother, despite his being in his final year of law school, would take time out of his schedule to take our son to dinner and just talk and bond. That touched not only my heart but made a huge impact on our son. He now knew that he had an uncle that loved him unconditionally and was showing that love through words and action. They made sure they spent time with our family - at our house or theirs- just enjoying life and ready to listen in case we wanted to talk about our son. They were comforting, mourning, and bearing our burden along with us. I felt lighter when they were around.
I am thankful for the friends that had our son over for dinner one night so he could share his mission experiences with them. They somehow knew that our son needed to talk about what he had experienced those ten weeks but was too painful for us to really want to hear all the stories and look at all the pictures. They took time out of their night to have our son come over, share what was important to him, and ease his heavy burden for a time. I am thankful for my dear friend next door who organized a birthday lunch for me shortly after our son came home with a group of sisters in our ward who had all experienced hard things. She wasn't going to let me wallow in my misery and wanted me to see firsthand that people go through hard things and still stand tall. She and her husband, who were second parents to our son, took him to lunch or dinner every once in awhile, made sure he came to visit them after he moved out, and never stopped SHOWING him unconditional love. She allowed me to vent and cry on her couch anytime I needed it. I knew she was sustaining me. I am thankful for another dear friend who, even though they had just moved back to Utah, took over the role of organizing parties and get together's. I had carried that role for our families and I just couldn't do it at the time - I wasn't in the mood to be happy. She recognized that we still needed to have fun, eat good food, laugh (and cry), and took over that role for me until I could do it again. I know that Heavenly Father surrounded me with the friends and family that were willing to bear, mourn, and comfort even if they didn't understand what we were going through. They lifted my burdens and brought me comfort.
So what is my point in all this rambling? That we come across people every single day that are experiencing some type of trial, heartache, or disappointment. It is not our place to say, "Oh, well, your trial isn't bad enough so therefore I don't need to help you." It is not our place to say, "I don't get this so therefore I don't have to help." That is not what Christ did and that is not what we are taught in the scriptures. We are to lift, comfort, and strengthen all those we can. Sometimes we may encounter people and situations where we can honestly say, "I know what you are going through" and know exactly what to do. But more likely than not, we will encounter people with trials and hardships that we cannot comprehend. But we can show Christlike love and acceptance even if we just give them a hug and say, "I'm sorry life sucks. Do you need a Coke? Chocolate? Tissues? A shoulder to cry on?" Those simple words will make anyone feel safe and open the door to help you bear, mourn, and comfort with them. I am thankful that this experience has taught me to be more cognizant of others, more compassionate, less judgmental, and more accepting of everyone. And to always keep a stash of caffeine, chocolate, and tissues.
But then that phone call does something strange to that army and it was literally disbanded in a matter of moments. Suddenly many, many of those friends didn't know what to say anymore. Suddenly the weekly text messages and Facebook correspondence stopped. Suddenly I felt that people avoided me at the store because they either didn't know what to say or didn't want to associate with "that mom with that kid." (I know now that was irrational to feel, but it's what I felt for a long awhile.) Suddenly going to lunch with my two neighbors sounded like the worst idea ever thought of. Suddenly I felt so alone and so isolated at church because I didn't belong in the same circle as all those other, more worthy missionary moms. Suddenly I was brutally shut out of a world that I had waited 19 years to be apart of. And with that brutal slamming of the door I quickly learned that there would be those that would help me bear this burden, mourn with me, and stand willing to comfort at any time.
My first real encounter with other people came at church that first Sunday. There were those ward members that came up and gave me and our son a huge hug and just said, "Welcome back." There were those that gave me that complimentary pity smile - not because they are trying to be rude but because they don't know what else to do. I know now that I have made that same horrible mistake and will never do that again. And there were those that I literally felt like they were happy our family was experiencing this trial-that we had this coming. But there were those that had walked this road before us that instantly knew what to do. I found tremendous strength, comfort, and safety in those people. They were the ones that knew how to mourn, bear, and comfort from personal experience and became my lifeline in the beginning. What I appreciated the very most was the people that came up to me and said, 'I have no idea what you are experiencing and feeling but know that you are loved and someday it's going to be okay." I loved that people could be honest with me because truly, only a handful of people did know what we were going through, but they still wanted me to feel safe around them. And their honesty gave me the permission I needed to feel safe.
I struggled for months with the "friends" that I suddenly didn't hear from anymore. I felt very betrayed in the beginning by their abandonment. Why was I suddenly no longer worthy or important enough for those weekly text messages or Facebook posts? Had my sons coming home offended them? Had my lack of parenting skills been a wake-up call to them that I wasn't good enough to be their friend anymore? My self-confidence, which was already dangerously low at this point, was pushed over the edge and I wondered if I would ever feel accepted and loved by anyone ever again. But I also had to acknowledge that friendships based solely on being a missionary mom couldn't survive for long if I no longer fit that title. The drifting apart was natural, not personal. It took me awhile to understand that. To this day, even two years later, I still run into some of those "friends' and the conversations are forced and unnatural to me.
Probably the biggest hurt I experienced came from family, oddly enough, but it taught me the greatest lesson. Shortly after Christmas my husbands family was having their traditional game night at my in-laws house. We had been attending this tradition for years and years and I always looked forward to it. This year was different. I hadn't heard from anyone on his side of the family except for one brother, "Joe", who was more like one of my kids. Joe had been divorced nearly 12 years ago and had lived with us for a year after his divorce where we supported him financially, emotionally, and mentally. Up to this point, that year had been the hardest we had ever experienced but also very rewarding. He had three sons that became like three sons to me and brothers to my five children. Our families shared a very, very close bond over the years so Joe was devastated by our son's early return as well. Or so we thought.
Not knowing how anyone else on his side of the family was going to react to us made me very apprehensive about attending this family party. I wasn't strong enough to be around people that I didn't feel safe with yet and I just didn't know if I was going to feel safe. I told my husband I didn't want to go - that it wouldn't be a good idea. My husband assured me that this was family, that I was loved no matter what, that his brother Joe would be there (who had recently remarried. That story is another blog for another day), and that everything would be "fine." So I went and felt like this night would be a good booster for me. Heaven knows playing some games, eating food, and having some laughs would do me a world of good. But that's not what happened.
We waited to go over to the party until two of our daughter were off work so we could go as a family so we were a bit late. We walked in and there were a few games going on, some family around the food table, and the rest sitting on the couches just visiting. The minute we walked into the room an odd feeling was immediately present. Was it tension? Apprehension? Uncertainty? Annoyance? Judging? Another group of people that felt our family had this coming? I couldn't tell but it didn't feel like my in-laws house normally felt like. My husband picked up on it too but again, he assured me that everything was "just fine." But a strange thing happened. As I got my food,as I sat on the couch around all the other adults- my brothers and sisters-in-law -no one spoke to me. Not one of them. For the whole night. I suddenly felt so alone and so out of place among people that were family and supposed to make you feel safe. I made a few feeble attempts at conversations but replies were merely one word answers. I distinctly felt that I was not among people that wanted us there; that we were being ignored for a reason. After two and half hours of being in that family room, on that couch surrounded by every single in-law not one person had talked to me or made the effort to reach out. I finally passed the time by re-reading every text message on my phone. Was I feeling sorry for myself at that point? Absolutely. But I was in mourning and just needed some comfort from anyone at that point. A couple of days later I was talking to Joe on the phone and asked why he hadn't said anything to me at the party. His response is one I'll never forget and hurt me almost as bad as having my son home. He said, "You know, you're making this into a bigger deal that what it is. It's not the end of the world. There are a lot of worse things people go through so you'll be fine." I was stunned, deeply hurt, and angry. I wished I would have known that when he was going through a divorce - I may have done a few things differently.
But here is the lesson I learned from that night and one I hope I never forget. Is there a scale that we measure pain, suffering, hurt, or trials on and then determine what amount of comfort we are to offer? Do we only bear burdens, mourn, and comfort those whose trials are deemed bad enough? After Alma had fled from King Noah and was teaching the people prior to their baptism at the Waters of Mormon he talked about what they needed to do to be called his people - covenants that anyone who is baptized has made. Does he not say, "...as ye are desirous to come into the fold of God, and to be called his people, and are willing to bear one another's burden's that they may be light. Yea, and are willing to mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort, and to stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places that ye may be in....(Mosiah 18:8-9)" I don't know that I see a scale where burdens and trials are measured against. And I began to wonder how many times I may have inadvertently treated someone else the same way.
I am close to my youngest brother and he and his family were back east for the holidays when they got the news. They both called and texted and said as soon as they got back to Utah they would come visit. And they did. They came out one Sunday, brought all my favorite foods, and just spent the night with us talking, making plans to help our son, and ended the night on a light and fun note. My brother, despite his being in his final year of law school, would take time out of his schedule to take our son to dinner and just talk and bond. That touched not only my heart but made a huge impact on our son. He now knew that he had an uncle that loved him unconditionally and was showing that love through words and action. They made sure they spent time with our family - at our house or theirs- just enjoying life and ready to listen in case we wanted to talk about our son. They were comforting, mourning, and bearing our burden along with us. I felt lighter when they were around.
I am thankful for the friends that had our son over for dinner one night so he could share his mission experiences with them. They somehow knew that our son needed to talk about what he had experienced those ten weeks but was too painful for us to really want to hear all the stories and look at all the pictures. They took time out of their night to have our son come over, share what was important to him, and ease his heavy burden for a time. I am thankful for my dear friend next door who organized a birthday lunch for me shortly after our son came home with a group of sisters in our ward who had all experienced hard things. She wasn't going to let me wallow in my misery and wanted me to see firsthand that people go through hard things and still stand tall. She and her husband, who were second parents to our son, took him to lunch or dinner every once in awhile, made sure he came to visit them after he moved out, and never stopped SHOWING him unconditional love. She allowed me to vent and cry on her couch anytime I needed it. I knew she was sustaining me. I am thankful for another dear friend who, even though they had just moved back to Utah, took over the role of organizing parties and get together's. I had carried that role for our families and I just couldn't do it at the time - I wasn't in the mood to be happy. She recognized that we still needed to have fun, eat good food, laugh (and cry), and took over that role for me until I could do it again. I know that Heavenly Father surrounded me with the friends and family that were willing to bear, mourn, and comfort even if they didn't understand what we were going through. They lifted my burdens and brought me comfort.
So what is my point in all this rambling? That we come across people every single day that are experiencing some type of trial, heartache, or disappointment. It is not our place to say, "Oh, well, your trial isn't bad enough so therefore I don't need to help you." It is not our place to say, "I don't get this so therefore I don't have to help." That is not what Christ did and that is not what we are taught in the scriptures. We are to lift, comfort, and strengthen all those we can. Sometimes we may encounter people and situations where we can honestly say, "I know what you are going through" and know exactly what to do. But more likely than not, we will encounter people with trials and hardships that we cannot comprehend. But we can show Christlike love and acceptance even if we just give them a hug and say, "I'm sorry life sucks. Do you need a Coke? Chocolate? Tissues? A shoulder to cry on?" Those simple words will make anyone feel safe and open the door to help you bear, mourn, and comfort with them. I am thankful that this experience has taught me to be more cognizant of others, more compassionate, less judgmental, and more accepting of everyone. And to always keep a stash of caffeine, chocolate, and tissues.
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